


Disconnect

by gigiree



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Reader Is Not MC, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree
Summary: You are nothing but a disconnected cog flowing against time. You remember the resets, but you can't do anything about them. Because you are not her. You are not MCBut you will still try to give them all a happy ending with your limited abilities...and it's not just because you've fallen irrevocably for 707.





	1. Disconnect

The city is strangely monotone tonight. Or perhaps it’s simply your anticipation settling over your hearing like a nervous haze, blunting the usually piercing sounds.

Exhaustion seeps deep into your marrow, and you absently swipe through your social media accounts, blindly taking in the current events.

It’s already close to midnight. You would have been home several hours ago, but still your feet find themselves glued to the sidewalk. You’re standing just a few meters away from the entrance of an obviously luxury penthouse. The wide glass panels that scale up the side reflect that brightness of the street lamps and if you squint, it kind of looks like space.

It was like this the last loop too. You had been in the right place, the right time to help them. To help her…to help him.

Sure enough, your hearing finally clears as the commotion from an upper floor precedes the shattering of a window.

Your heartbeat quickens. Your legs tense, and you’re aware of the pain that’s coming.

You run to catch the delicate figure that arcs through the air. Bits of glass dangerously fall around you with laughing clinks.

Her long brown hair trails after her, and she looks remarkably like a shooting star against the flaring city lights.

You calculate it just right. Sharp pain lances through your arms as she lands roughly on you. But you do better this time. You use your own weight to break the momentum, biting back a shout of pain as you roll both her and you across the ground for a bit, dissipating the impact.

Distantly, beyond the pain that makes you sob and her harsh breathing, you hear them call her.

“MC!”

Stars burst behind your eyelids, and you try and regulate your breathing to stop your sobs.

She’s stirring against your broken body, a string of apologies for you breaking from her.

“I just wanted….I don’t know…I’m so sorry  
..I wanted to be free.” She cries, and you try to offer a smile, to say something comforting…really you do, but if you open your mouth, you’re going to scream.

So you let yourself disconnect for a bit, drifting off to be suspended amongst the stars that appear if you shut your eyes hard enough.

* * *

 

It was Jumin’s route. It was Jumin’s penthouse she’d jumped from. Jumin’s concerns and possessiveness that had driven her to make the leap.

It was Jumin’s money that brought you here to the luxury hospital suite. A room which, even as a physician at this hospital, you’ve rarely had the chance to see. Both your arms wrapped in thick white casts and your cracked ribs wrapped up expertly. You even have a few bandages around your neck and on your cheeks covering where the glass had cut.

The sheets are nice. Probably a very high thread count and they’re a pretty creamy shade. Not the stark white ones you’re so used to seeing your patients in.

You’re hopped up on pain meds, and the whole situation seems a bit funny as you begin to laugh.

You laugh so you don’t break in more ways than you have.

Your lips twitch into a smile, slightly hurting because they’re so dry. You close your eyes for a bit more, lamenting the bright sun that sweeps cheerfully into your room.

“You’re finally awake.”

You know that voice. You’d know in a million different universes.

Opening your eyes is going to hurt if Seven is here. Because in some ways, he’s brighter than the sun…and unrequited affection is a troublesome thing to hide when he’s so observant.

Still, you do a pretty good job of pretending that you don’t know him.

You let your eyes open again, just the tiniest sliver. The room is a scene done in watercolors through your half gaze, and the shock of red hair leaning against the plush claret colored armchair is a lot less jarring than it was the first time.

“Who are you?” You ask quietly, your voice slinking past your parched throat with difficulty.

(You know who he is, of course. It’s hard to forget the man you’ve dedicated half your time to.)

He stands up without a word and pours you water from a glass pitcher at the end table closest to him.

His golden eyes glimmer with a deep gratitude. There’s slight amusement that accompanies his look as your struggle to sit up.

But it’s a useless endeavour with both your arms wholly buried in their casts. You end up flopping on the bed, rolling from side to side like a turtle on its back.

His laugh is warm..lovely. It sends unwelcome tendrils of affection lacing through your chest. Your eyes open fully when he carefully slips an arm behind your back and props you up slowly.

It’s painstakingly careful. The way he handles you, the way he pauses with trembling anxiousness when you hiss out in pain.

His other hand holds the frigid edge of the glass to your lips.

“Drink. Please.” He says haltingly, and you wonder why there’s that distance in his eyes now. The kind that let’s you know that his cogs are whirring against each other, rapidly chewing up any and all information he can gather.

You drink gratefully, swallowing huge gulps nearly embarrassingly and some of it dribbles down your chin.

His face warms considerably as you try and wipe your face against your shoulder, but the thin hospital gown is no good and you try and protest as he uses the sleeve of his black jacket to do so.

“Thank you.” You mutter, and decide that this is as much illumination as you can take without the light burning your feelings onto your face.

He chuckles and sets you back against the probably swan feather pillows.

He treats you like an old friend…but that’s probably entirely because you’d just saved the love of his lifetimes.

(He loves her. Always. Unfailingly. No matter whose route it is.)

“I am 707. Defender of Justice.” He announces abruptly, that beloved humor of his slipping over his expression to bury whatever it is he’s thinking.

You laugh again. Only more carefully to avoid hurting your ribs.

“That’s a unique name. My name is ____. It’s uh…nice to meet you, Defender of Justice.”

(It’s such a safe answer. Said as easily as if it had been programmed into you. But it’s not because you’ve been practicing how you would respond to him ever since the loop restarted.)

Before you can say anything else. He lets that broad smile fall. Lets his eyes remain entirely serious and earnest behind his orange striped glasses.

It’s almost too much when the tears bead his lashes and he crumples back into the armchair.

He buries his face in his hands, his voice muffled as he speaks.

“Thank you…thank you for saving her. I don’t know…I’m so grateful…if you ever need a favor…anything…I’ll be there…just ask.”

You know you’ll never ask for a favor. That’s just not the kind of person you are…but you are glad he’s happy. You’re glad she’s alive.

But some secret part of you…the selfish part you rarely ever indulge…hopes with all its horrible might that this time line stays.

That maybe she and Jumin make up. That maybe she’s found the one she wants to stay for.

But you can’t let yourself wish for that. Ever.

You don’t say anything then. You let his tears dry up without a word, and you merely wave away his thanks with a distant response.

“I won’t just let her die. It wasn’t right, even if…even if she would have been fine. Is she…is she okay now?”

(You don’t notice that the tenses of your words don’t mesh. They don’t fit. Just like you.)

Seven looks at you with the strangest mix of confusion and comprehension, but then he relaxes and tells you that apart from a few broken bones and a broken heart, MC is recovering nicely.

He looks like he wants to say more, but the door bursts open, and you’re swept away by a tide of gratitude that comes in the forms of the rest of the RFA members piling into the room.

You almost feel like you’re suffocating. You’re not used to attention. There’s entirely too little air to share with everyone,and blessed, wonderful Jaehee notices this right away.

She corrals an excited Yoosung and an effusive Zen away from your bedside. Seven hangs around the back of the group, fading into the backdrop a lot more than you’d like to think.

(It’s as if he’s waiting to disappear.)

“Thank you so much for saving our friend.” Yoosung says quietly, and somehow, he’s contained all that excitement and shoved it into the sweetest expression.

“We really….we’re blessed that you were there for her. Thank you so much.” Zen chimes in, unusually subdued now that he can get a good look at your face. He hands you a bunch of yellow daffodils, the pink cellophane crinkling as he sheepishly notices that both of your arms are out of commission.

“Sorry.” He says, placing them delicately on the bedside table. You try and give him a small reassuring smile.

“It’s fine. Your charm is uh just a little disarming.” you remark offhandedly.

And that does it. The laughter ripples through them, something gentle and relieved.

Your voice gets caught in your throat again, and they’re all so wonderful. But they’re not your friends.

You’re an intruder into a series of events that spiral and latch onto these wonderful people like a weed.

And you’ve never been the best gardener. You’re so used to letting the weeds overrun your garden, choking out the vivacity of your flowers.

You’re worried you’ll mess this up again…but the antique clock..the one encased in cherry wood…marks the passage of time.

The door creaks open one more time. It’s Jumin.

He’s smoothing down the lapel of his immaculate suit, and if you hadn’t known any better, you wouldn’t have been able to see that he was downright tired and sad.

You want to glare at him, but he’s brought you the best care and he already looks shattered and you supposedly don’t know anything.

But if MC is heartbroken, this isn’t the ending that will stay.

—-  
You were right. It happened overnight. You all went back to about ten days ago.

The sun sieves in through your gauzy curtains, and you bury your tears into your pillow.

Here we go again.  
—-

It’s getting hard to remember when time started going in circles for you.

Monotony was not a thing you particularly enjoyed, but it’s what your life had spiraled into.

It was the same shifts at work. The same things said. The same people flitting in and out of your days that had clued you in to what was going on.

But no one else had seemed to noticed.

You’d seemed to have disconnected from the general consciousness of time. You were a lone cog spinning misguidedly in place…careening into a dim little place where you could never see different stars.

But you hadn’t been alone when you realized it. You’d been so close to falling apart, lost as to how to get out of an looping existence.

You hadn’t known anything, and you’d simply ambled across the city after work. Your hands tucked into pockets of your gray jacket.

The rain was misty and cold, and your red scarf hung uselessly around your neck. Your wet hair was plastered to your forehead and yet the frigid night could hardly touch you. You were deeply distant. Withdrawing from a reality that made no sense.

Disconnected because it hurt to much to think about a future if the same days repeating.

Your feet were the only things you really took notice of, letting your boots slips harmlessly into puddles on the sidewalk.

Somewhere through your haze, you had recognized the striking of a bell. A gentle, wavering toll that resounded in your chest and threaded through your muscles until you were walking in that direction.

You’d never been a particularly religious person. You’d never been a regular at your family’s place of worship and the concept of something beyond the stars was a little hard for you to fathom

So it was with no small amount of surprise that you had found yourself in front of a pristine white little church. It was tucked in between two high rises, nearly hidden behind a copse of great oaks and the bell sang merrily beyond them.

But this was something different. A change of pace. The only thing changing on a haze of looping days.

The cold was beginning to numb your nose and without more deliberation, you went up the pathway and quietly slipped past the open doors.

And you thought that at eleven o’ clock on a weekday night, it would just be you and the priest.

But someone else was there. A lonely figure bent over in a pew, his hands clasped and his head bowed towards the giant cross at the front of the aisle.

You didn’t really pay him any mind. The only thing vaguely outstanding about his appearance had been that bright red hair, like sunset on a roses, a few residual raindrops catching the light.

Still, you needed to be next to a person. Because the people you love and know had slowly been drifting into predictable patterns. You feared the silent curiosity that makes you test their responses, that made you mess with the order of things to see if you could get different reactions on the same day.

You didn’t look at him as you slid into the front pew and settled yourself in the corner closer to the middle aisle.

He shifted a little, and you could feel his gaze on you, but you had already clasped your hands in your lap and bent your head.

You were not really praying. You were too busy thinking. Your eyes closed against the gilded brightness of the altar. There was a barely settled peace that crested your emotions, and you finally felt the stays in your heart fray open, letting your despair fill you to the brim.

The tears spilled past your tightly shut eyelids, and you bit your bottom lip to stop the strangled sobs.

You hoped the only other person here won’t notice.

But maybe you wanted him too. You wanted someone…anyone to act differently from a preset pattern.

And he did.

He had been remarkably silent as he had stood up and settled in closer to your end of the pew.

Something is pressed into your loosely twined fingers. The small package crinkled merrily, almost reassuringly and surprise pried open your eyes until all you saw was a starry flare of red. Followed by kind golden eyes behind ridiculously striped glasses.

His smile was soft as he nods to the package of tissues he’s placed in your hands.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, and you recoiled a bit, wariness making your breath hitch.

He was so patient with you and you merely nodded, the nonsense explanation of being stuck in a time loop knotted in your throat.

You swallowed it down, and replaced it with a hasty “thank you” as you opened the tissues and used one to dab at your raw cheeks.

He waited.

“It seems like you have some tissues to work out.” He ventured, and his smile this time was edged with mischief.

Something different. Something disconnected from the patterns and you responded in kind.

“Thank you. It never crossed my mind that a church was a good place do that.” You said with a watery smile and a pointed glance at the silver crucifix hanging on a delicate chain against his black jacket.

He laughed and you suddenly felt a little shy, so you turned your gaze down into the pile of tissues you were starting to wrinkle in your nervousness.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He settled quietly, his laughter bitten off into a careful question.

Again, the cogs within you spun uselessly, grinding painfully against your reason and logic.

You were silent for long enough to make him anxious. He wasn’t too close and wasn’t too far. A good, respectful distance.

It was almost adorable. The way he raised his hands in front of him, his smile straining as he tried to explain himself.

“I know I’m just a stranger. I’m sorry, this is a little weird, but it’s just…I’m usually alone here and this is different…and sometimes…it really helps to talk about things…even just a little. I mean usually a priest would be a better option, but he stepped out for a bit and…”

His explanation wound down into a frustrated sigh, his hands threading through his unruly hair.

It was your turn to laugh. It was a horrid shattered thing, a shard of humor stained with gray. But it was sharp enough to cut a window into reality.

And through your haze, you found your words tumbling out.

“I’m stuck. I can’t move forward. I’m trapped and I can’t do anything about it.”

He was surprised, that was for sure. He hadn’t expected you to answer and he fidgeted a bit with the headphones settled around his neck, contemplating.

“I know the feeling.” He finally answered.

You couldn’t say more. He would think you insane for the full explanation, but you supposed your small confession sufficed.

There was a certain lightness to your chest. A bit more room for air to fill your lungs.

“But there’s always a way…to move forward. There’s always something you can do. You can figure it out. Whatever is causing you to feel this way, you have to first find out why it’s keeping you stuck.” He said.

And it was the clarity of his statement, the absolute total obviousness of it all, that formed your epiphany from gray desperation.

He did not know what do when you burst into tears once again. But this time, you cried because there’s relief.

A direction you could move in. You made a decision to solve the puzzle, even if you would be alone.

For now, there was a beautifully bewildered person next to you and the rain outside is desolate, but you were warm.

He didn’t introduce himself that time. The time line had reset the next day, but you were filled with hope.  
—

The problem with hope is that it wanes so easily.

The loops pass without much change. You gather your knowledge, but you make mistakes.

You’re an outsider, floating helplessly in a dangerous tide.

There’s a strange organization. A boy with bleached with white hair that looks a lot like the one you hide your feelings for.

There’s good endings and bad endings. The one thing they all have in common is that none of them stick.

The day you’ve had enough is the day you decide to wrap a red scarf around the bottom half of your face and pull the hood of your yellow raincoat low over your face.

It’s the day you arrive an hour earlier to the church than you did the first time. The day you deliberately avoid meeting 707 and you place a hastily sealed envelope in the corner of the pew where he always sits.

The priest, a kind faced old man with a graying beard, watches you quietly as you slip away into the rain.

You wonder what the answer to the question you left behind will be.

—

Seven receives a mysterious message. It’s something that sparks a realization, something terrifying that shreds through every other mundane and deadly worry that’s plagued him until now.

The envelope is nondescript, the writing unfamiliar. It sits innocently enough on his usual seat.

The priest isn’t around to ask about it, and stuff like this is usually tied to something sinister.

But there’s a really bad drawing of a cat on the underside and that’s somehow less reassuring.

The contents shatter his usually controlled emotions, and make him feel so tired. His thoughts fray and he feels disconnected.

‘ _I’m so sorry. She chose someone else again. At least the party sounded like it went well. And Yoosung will be able to see again…soon._

_What path do we follow tomorrow, 707?’_


	2. Distortion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you chicken out and grab some coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so disjointed. It makes no sense because it makes no sense to the reader herself. MC is just this mysterious informant/force that can't be logical.

Part 2 of the Disconnect series. 

Distortion is a pretty girl with bright butterscotch eyes and soft brown hair. Distortion is a girl with too big a heart, and too heavy a weight on her shoulders.

He used to be scared for her. Now Seven is scared of her.

Scared of what she brings.

He still thinks himself a dangerous man. No matter what she decides, he’s a little glad she hasn’t tried to get closer to him. Namely because he’s still embroiled in a storm of espionage and his fate had been marked many times over for a disappearance.

Any slip up, and the agency would make sure of it.

But still, he never thought that he’d see all of his problems as mundane. And now that he’s aware of time twisting into something unrecognizable, he really wants to find that space ship and sail away into the stars.

But he’s not alone. Not entirely.

The first time he had realized that time had spun in circles was on a strangely familiar trip to a small church in the middle of the city.

Everything had been overwhelming, the niggling doubt, the thought that he might just be going insane. His jokes feeling old and cracked and tired, but everyone reacted to them like they were brand new.

His reality had become a thin, transparent thing. Sometimes he would even take off his glasses and squint up at the flaring traffic lights just to convince himself that he was in outer space and not in a world where he thought he was going insane.

And he’s a decently religious person. He hadn’t gone to church in years, but he says his prayers every night, he wears that cross around his neck…and so it’s not so strange that he had gone to church at midnight.

It’s not strange that it had been raining and the priest had stepped out for a bit.

It’s strange that there had been a delicate little envelope, a letter written on fairly plain stationery. But it was the words that had cut him quick. Words that had pelted at his already thinning grasp on reality and placed spiderwebbed cracks in it.

“What path do we follow tomorrow, 707?”

The words had blurred, turning into flaring black stars as he read them again with tears in his eyes.

He kept the letter tucked away in his jacket pocket all the way, smiling in the face of Distortion and finding his love for her twisting into something a little less defined…something laced with pity.

The route had ended, and he’d almost screamed in horror to find that with it, the letter was gone.

Only to go to the church once again on a rainy night and find a different envelope on the pew.

Over and over, the pattern repeats. The messages are different. Encouraging and kind.

He’s still trying to find the person that leaves them behind.

Unfortunately all he has to go on is the footage from the hacked CCTV cameras that ring the church property and that line the main street.

He’s watching the footage from last night again, trying to pick up some defining clues about the person’s identity.

But the little figure in the grainy feed is covered head to toe. Their yellow raincoat is horrifically distracting and he can’t really make out any features underneath the hood. 

The red scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face is tucked neatly into their jacket, and what hangs over sways jauntily with their purposeful steps.

He feels something like a smile curl across his face, something that’s almost so small, so real. It’s been so long since he’s smiled so small. It’s a relief. It’s a scary thing, this newborn hope that rests in the hands of a complete stranger.

He finds it strange, their movements are confident and practiced. Their steps go faster and faster, the soundless rain bouncing around the heels of their rainboots as they cradle that familiar envelope to them. Their dark umbrella spins lackadaisically over them, almost like a wheel of fortune and it takes him a while to notice that they’ve stopped just across the street from the traffic camera.

And if he looks close beyond the grainy footage, he can just make out the wry smile that peers over the edge of their scarf. They seem to hesitate for a bit, before adjusting their grip on their umbrella and the letter to free up a hand. They curl their fingers into a fist, bend their hand at the wrist in mimicry of a cat swiping a paw.  
Then they make their way down the hidden lane that leads to the little white church.

Their shrinking image is distorted as his laughter overtakes him, and the tears well up in his golden eyes.

He doesn’t know if it’s relief or fear that he feels.

—

  
You’re not entirely sure how this arrangement came to be. You’re not entirely sure it’s even a good idea.

But here she was again, sitting across from you in the quiet little cafe. The decorative cat made of foam on your latte is already dissipating by the time you look up from your phone and decide to acknowledge her.

You’ve never been a very angry person. You’re slow to boil, slow to react. It’s easier to plan out a course of action when your world isn’t colored in red.

(But that’s not a lie, because red is the color that makes your heart race and makes you do stupid things.)

She’s lovely. Again. Dressed in a cream colored sweater. Again.

Her eyes are wide and their flecks of gold shift subtly with her emotions.

But you’ve long since mastered jealousy. It’s the one weed you’ve been good at choking. The one bad emotion you’ve managed to circumvent.

So politely, just like last time, you move the plate of chocolate chip cookies in her direction.

This time she doesn’t take one.

She opens her mouth to thank you, but then the tears bead over and you quickly offer her a napkin.

She accepts it with a sweet smile and dabs at the corners of her eyes, before apologizing.

“I’m really…I’m really sorry for all the trouble I put you through. I just…this last one, I wasn’t…” 

She stills, her eyes widening until they seem to swallow her face whole.

“I’m scared, ___.” 

Confusion sweeps through you, a churning mix of pity and hurt and bitterness and confusion twists your lungs and makes it harder to breath.

You’d always thought she was confident. Immortal in a way that could easily make everything…all of them…seem like a game.

But MC is also just a girl. A girl made of smiles and tears and distorted time.

And you’ve never hated her, but you’ve hated that she never seemed to care about her actions, flitting about between the routes, saying I love you to different people over and over.

But MC is also human, and though you may not understand her, there’s always room in a person’s heart for many loves. Still, it scares you just how much she seems to know. You’ve never quite figured out how she realized you remembered things.

She’s always quiet. Always sweetly confident and cheerful…except for today.

“Scared?” You ask. “I don’t understand.”

MC’s expression shifts into one of mute horror, her hand drifting to cover her eyes as she shudders.

“I keep losing myself. I’m starting not to feel like me…I just…sometimes I say the worst things. Sometimes the bad parts are my fault. Sometimes I get bored…or sad…I can’t change it all.” 

The words lance cold through your chest and for a moment, you want to run. Her words remind you that being human means being capable of both incredible kindness and horrific amounts of cruelty. You don’t know if you’d do things differently if you were in her position, but you’ve had your fair share of boredom with the loops.

You’ve had your fair share of enjoyment at predicting things your coworkers and friends would not expect.

It is a frightful prospect. But MC only trusts you with the sort of trust you’d give to a stranger you met and who you had told your life’s woes to. The kind of trust engendered by unfamiliarity, and you know she won’t let you pry further.

“I…I think you mean well.” You say, but somehow the words come out montone. Dry. 

You cup your hands awkwardly around your lukewarm drink, and tap your fingers nervously.

MC drops her hands with a shattered resignation. Her eyes are melancholy as she appraises you, and her smile is kind and a little bitter.

“You should make friends with them. They’d like you. You’d like them.” She says quietly. She begins to pick at the cookie you offered her earlier…not quite eating it so much as reducing it to a pile of crumbs as broken as your sanity.

She doesn’t seem to remember that you have on occasion made friends with a few of them. But you’ve gone out of your way to avoid them, and much to your chagrin, you’ve started to notice the RFA members cropping up in places you’d never seen them before.

Or maybe they’d always been there and you were just looking for them. Looking for people with images distorted into all sorts of wavering light from behind your aching loneliness. Eleven days is hardly enough to get to know someone, much less become friends with them.

And maybe that jealousy isn’t as controlled as you would like because the question tumbles out from your mouth, leaving your mortified.

“When are you going to pick 707?”

MC’s head snaps up, eyes wide and tear tracks shining in the warm golden light.

“Wha…I…I don’t understand…”

And then something in your face probably tells it all. It’s written in your expression, in the way your hands grip tightly to your mug, in the way your cheeks redden.

“Oh.” She says delicately, surprise lining her mouth. “You love him too.”

You look away from her, unable to stop the tears that sting your eyes and leave you feeling raw and exposed and ugly.

—-  
You don’t go to that coffee shop again.  
—-

You bond with Jaehee over coffee, of all things.

Your 48 hour shift is only half way done. You are exhausted as you lumber past the plastic surgery ward and waiting room. You are looking for the surgeons’ break room where all the high end coffee was hidden with a nearly humorous zeal.

So much stronger than the watery lukewarm concoction you could buy from the vending machines in your unit.

In the brief haze of your thoughts, a face in the crowded waiting room stands out. A tired, fairly pretty face framed with short brown hair. The old ugly brown chair next to hair is occupied by a gift basket about the size of your torso, wrapped in a very ornate gilded cellophane.

You stiffen a little. You’d been doing such a great job of avoiding all of them. You think for a second or two that she might recognize you, beyond the messy style you’ve shoved your hair into and beyond the permanent dark circles that ring your eyes.

It’s your long pause a few feet away from her that drags her weary attention from the paperwork on her lap to you.

But there is no familiarity in her gaze. No subtle warmth or invitation to talk that you would have experienced in timelines where you did save MC.

You feel awkward. Out of place, out of sync. This isn’t supposed to be a place of meeting for any of them.

You resist the urge to tuck your hands into pockets of your white coat. Instead you settle for fiddling with the stethoscope you have around your neck.

You notice that she holds a cup of the vending machine coffee in her hands. She follows your gaze, and you note the quick disgust that flashes in her expression as she looks at her coffee.

“It sucks, huh?” You say quietly, your lips quirking into what you hope is a warmer expression than shock.

She blinks wide eyes at you, before it hits her just what you’ve said.

“Pardon me, but yes. Yes it does suck.” 

The awkwardness of her decisive opinion makes you laugh a little. You worry that she thinks you’re making fun of her, so you offer her a bit of salvation.

“The cafeteria burns their coffee, so I wouldn’t try it from there either. Now the surgeons…they’ve got the best brew…for hospital coffee anyway.” You tell her conspiratorially, and then you shrug. “Hold on, please.”

You leave Jaehee with a hasty apology.

The sneaky trip to the break room and back is thankfully met with little suspicion. You think a nurse knows exactly what you’re up to, but she merely gives you an understanding laugh and lets you go on your merry way with two cups of hazelnut coffee in your hands.

She seems just as surprised as you were before to see you return, better coffee in hand.

“They can’t keep it hidden from caffeine addicts like me.” You joke, before handing her the cup and watching in glee as she throws away the vending machine coffee with vindication.

“That’s…well, I suppose the same is true for me. Thank you so much.” She says with good humor.

Her smile is small, but genuinely sweet and grateful as she accepts your token of shared misery.

She seems like she’s about to say something more, but then decides against it. 

There isn’t really an awkward silence. It’s hard to circumvent noise when that’s all there is in the waiting room. The quiet humdrum of visitors and the occasional conversations in the background are distracting.

You take a few sips of your coffee, wrinkling your nose because it’s a little bit too bitter, but the subtle nutty flavor is pleasant and rich. It helps you wake up a bit.

You jolt. Realization striking you with a small heated shame.

“I’m so sorry! I gave it to you black! I can go get you cream and sugar.” 

You’re about to list of your usual litany of apologies, but she shakes her head vigorously and for once you can see that her eyes have brightened up behind her glasses.

A touch of real happiness in the midst of a tiring day for her, you can sort of understand.

“It tastes better this way. I can catch the little bit of hazelnut and the hint of cinnamon all combined to make it a perfect blend.” She says in a rush, and clearly she feels a bit doubtful when you look at her with more surprise.

She settles back into her chair, adorably flustered as she pushes her glass back up her nose.

“It is a nice blend for a drip brew. Personally I prefer sweeter flavors, but this one is great.” You say, hoping to relieve some of her embarrassment.

“Oh? You like coffee?” She asks quietly, a bit amazed and partially wary. She thinks you might be making fun of her again.

And you’ve never been one to make others feel bad for their interests.

You look at the cheap clock hanging overhead and note that you still have a few minutes for your break.

“Yeah I do! I mean I’m not an expert by any means, but I know the basics. I really like hand pressed coffee, but it takes so much time.” You lament, taking another sip of yours with an almost reverent expression.

That prompts a full blown discussion then. It’s the smallest of small talk, and you’re sure her knowledge of the drink far outpaces your meager interest. It gets to a point where you’re the one asking her questions, and she answers. A bit unsure, but then with an excitement that makes you rethink your earlier preconceptions of her having been an organized, working woman with very little interests outside of said work.

By the time you get around to asking her who she’s waiting for, you realize with a pang of worry that you hope it’s none of the RFA members.

(Too attached, you’re getting too attached.)

You try and subtly gather more information, but Jaehee is so much more astute than you give her credit for.

She looks at you with amusement, before telling you outright.

“I’m happy to see you are following privacy protocols, Dr.____, but I’m not here for family or friends. It’s a…work arrangement of sorts.” She says with a bit of a bitter expression.

(You have to work so hard to hide the genuine relief that threatens to send you weeping to the floor.)

You quirk your head in silent confusion, before she looks around a little warily.

“My boss’s boss asked me to wait for…one of his friends as she recovered from her surgery. And to give her a get well present.”

You assume this is information given in good confidence that you will not talk. And really who are you going to gossip about this to? Youre sure that everyone in your ward would already know by the time you get back.

Gossip spreads fast here. It’s just that the staff knows how to hide it behind skillful small talk.

You nod your head at her anyway, giving her a sympathetic smile, before noting the time.

“I’ve got to go. My break is unfortunately finished. No rest for the weary.” You say quietly, lifting your empty cup to her in a commiserating gesture.

“Thank you again!” She says as she returns the gesture with a pleasant laugh, before turning back to the rest of the paperwork Stacked on her lap.

A small sense of regret fills you, but you shove it away. You’ve done your good deed for the day. This was just a one-off thing anyways…at least for you. You hope the Chairman’s new wife won’t be one of those who depended on plastic surgery for a sense of validation.

Because that would mean more late night hospital visits for poor Jaehee.

But then what’s the whole point of this…what’s the point of discussing coffee and making friends when she’s just going to forget that you even exist in eight days or less.

You don’t cry. You want to, but you don’t. The world is already too distorted, it would only get harder to see behind all those tears.  
—-

The rain softens the edges of the city. It dribbles down the sides of building and runs down cold windows and distorts the lights until you find yourself comfortable in it.

If you can see this place as just a little bit different, it helps alleviate some of the stagnant pain that aches within you.

The only thing you can do is change up your own actions. You refuse to rely on MC’s uncanny abilities. She’s the one who has put you in this conundrum in the first place. Youre not even sure why you’re the only one who remembers.

She had said it could have been anyone. She had said that she could have been anyone.

She had said that all the possibilities and all the algorithms of the universe had lined up and had presented you and her with this situation.

She had said the he remembered too. You hadn’t wanted to ask who he was.

She had said…she will say…she says…

You’re being selfish again. You know you are and you still can’t bring yourself to get out from under your umbrella and go home.

It’s after work again. It’s nearly midnight again, and here you are waiting to put another letter on Seven’s seat in that lovely little church just down the lane behind you.

But you can’t move. The water feels heavy as it bounces off your umbrella. The world is pleasant and still and you feel some form of comfort when you look at the CCTV camera and behind all your doubts, you hope he can see the cheerful wave you give.

(He can hack almost anything…including security cameras. Surprisingly, another tidbit of information freely and mysteriously given by MC. You wonder if she’s just pitying you.)

You’ve taken stock of the way he subtly, quietly takes possession of certain things. The way he quietly protects them and clings onto them in past time lines.

This church is most likely a place he’s put a claim on. You don’t know if he’ll see your message. Don’t know if it will make any sense. Don’t know if he even will remember…you just want to hope.

So you make sure he can’t see your face. Your new yellow raincoat is such a contrast to your usual gray one, that you’re sure he wouldn’t recognize you if he ever met you in passing.

You hide the rest of your face under your red scarf, and have finally gathered enough courage to head inside before someone steps up behind you.

The sloppy sloshing of careful steps alerts you to his presence.

You try your best to control your breathing. Try to control the ridiculous beating of your heart that threatens to leap from your threat and straight into his hands if he offered.

You would do almost anything to stop his hurt. Whatever it is. Almost anything, save breaking yourself to do it.

You don’t speak. Just focus your eyes on the eerily still camera across the street.

And much like with Jaehee, the silence is filled in. Filled in with rain and wind and gentle chiming bells and his footsteps.

You feel his warmth up close. You tuck your umbrella close to you, and lucky for you, he’s tall enough to be blocked by it.

“Hey…don’t you think it’s a little too cold to stay out here?” He says warmly, curiously. 

You don’t answer.

You let your eyes dart quickly to the side. Just beyond the edge of your umbrella, you can see his hands shoved into the pockets of that black jacket he loves to wear. Can see the pale skin of his arm pelted with rain.

(He remembers. He doesn’t. He remembers. He doesn’t. You play the petal game with the rain drops. Never ending.)

The letter sits heavy in your pocket. You hadn’t expected this. He was always already inside by this time. This doesn’t make sense.

“Hmm. Giving me the silent treatment and I haven’t even made the bad jokes yet.” He ventures. “Water the odds.”

You smile, but he can’t see it.

He shivers, and guilt prompts you to lift up your umbrella higher. You still don’t look at him, but he hums with surprise as you edge it in his direction.

A silent invitation to find mutual shelter.

He takes it with a strange little breath, something like broken laughter. He’s still a little too tall for the height you hold the umbrella at, and he ducks in awkwardly with shoulders hunched.

You nearly shriek when after a sigh of annoyance, he places his hand just over yours on the umbrella, an impatience that you’re not used to coming from him.

“Please. I can hold it for the both of us.” He says quietly.

You childishly push your cheeks out, but still let go, slipping your hand away from the handle.

You could run now. You’re free of the umbrella.

But the letter sets as a heavy reminder. You need to give it to him. You’re almost shaking with the surety of your conclusion. He remembers.

“Why are you here?” He asks quietly, and you can feel his gaze and the rain and the letter all weighing down on you.

You want to talk, but you are fearful because it doesn’t matter. Does he remember always? Will you remember? Maybe one day, she resets and one day you don’t remember and one day he marries her and one day you’re back to your everyday life.

Staying still is so much more safe than moving.

So you don’t let your mouth move.

You let your words drown in your sorrow.

You quickly take out the letter, and crumple it into his empty hand while jerking the umbrella from his loose hold. You let out a slight squeak with your effort, but that’s the only sound you make before you run off into the rain.

Your hands are numb and filled with needles, but still you hold the wobbling umbrella in front of you, fighting against the wind.

He doesn’t chase after you. You notice a bit sheepishly after the first few blocks.

You lean against your knees and pant, your hood already fallen around your shoulders and your hair plastered wet to your head and face.

You’re not sure if he remembers anymore.

It hurts.  
—

He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. He just has to wait for you again.

And if you don’t show up again, he will find you. Because maybe…just maybe you can help each other break apart and see past this distortion.

Because beyond all the rain, you’ve brought clarity. He wishes for your happiness as he gazes at the flaring red stoplight in the rain.


	3. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet again and you fail to distract yourself.

Sometimes she likes to pretend that she's in a fairytale. Sometimes she likes to sit primly in Rika’s old apartment, and read reinterpreted fairy tales.

Sometimes MC likes to act the part of the damsel in the fairytale. Even if she knows she's more likely the enchantress in this story, she likes to read by the wide glass windows and wait for someone to climb the tower to meet her.

He never fails either. Like clockwork...like magic...he somehow drags his frail body up the sides of the building and shatters the glass.

It honestly stopped being terrifying after three loops and has begun to be a sort of welcome ritual.

Today is one of those days. Today he's supposed to be here, and Zen will come and save her.

She sighs. She's so bored, she sometimes wonders what would happen if she let herself be taken away. But the feeling of old regrets clings tightly to Rika’s room. The framed pictures, gorgeous and poignant and colorful, all tell of a sad story that imparts MC with a fierce kind of will.

To live. To save them all. Even if she has to break herself and break time to do it.

Still, she can pretend to pass the time...except today, there is a change.

The hours pass and the sun sets beyond the city skyline. The twilight looms like a broken promise and she is safe. She wonders if you've changed this somehow. She wonders if she's happy about that or not.

Regardless, she feels like the worst kind of liar as she tells Zen that she is safe and that she misses him.  
\----

You're not an entirely nosey person by nature, but...come on. Anyone would find the sight of a slim  
young man getting to ready to scale up the wall of a multi story apartment building suspicious. It's drizzling. You wonder if he's in his right mind at first, if maybe he's drunk...but then you see the sturdy rock climbing equipment and harness wrapped around him, and you realize this is planned.

That it happens to be Rika’s old apartment building seems like too much of a coincidence and you roll your eyes. You're a little annoyed that you've stumbled upon another one of MC’s unfortunate situations.

You've donned your gray raincoat with the resolve to live your life as normally as possible. You’ve kept the yellow one in the back of your closet, having decided not to leave any more letters until you have some kind of direction to go in.

You're stubborn that way. So to see this person with weird white hair break through the gray rainy day with a frail kind of tenacity irks you.

You decide to take it in stride and use the broadside of your umbrella to attack. You thwack him harshly on the back as soon as he starts climbing.

He hisses in surprise, dropping his hands from the wall and placing his feet back on the sidewalk. He rubs at the side where you'd hit him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He shouts, batting your umbrella away with a ferocity you hadn't expected from his thin frame.

His voice is also a lot more delicate than you had expected. Higher pitched, a little more frantic.

His angry face treads the edges of familiarity when he turns to look at you, green eyes bright with barely repressed fury. But the shape of them is the same. The turn of the mouth, the angle of his jaw, even the little dimple flashing at the edge of his bitter sneer is familiar.

Your heart beats faster, irregular. Your brain unhelpfully supplies a related medical term. Tachycardia. Inaccurate, you tell yourself.

And you hold your umbrella in front of you, letting yourself imagine that you've somehow acquired fencing skills.

“Why the hell did you hit me?” He reiterates, his annoyance sharpening yours until your mouth moves on its own.

“Because you're a creep who's climbing up an apartment building. I'm not gonna let you rob or attack some innocent person in their own home!”

His mouth gapes in incomprehension. He works to say something, but he seems to be at a loss. His expression shifts into something more contemplative as you stand there, looking braver than you feel.

“Don't call the police.” He looks away from you, makes himself smaller, as he takes down his equipment and packs it into a large black duffel bag.

It's all so suspicious, but something about his plaintive eyes and slim frame makes him look so breakable.

He rises smoothly to his feet, and you notice that even if he seems frail, he is still taller than you. His bleached hair catches the cloudy russet sunset and brings out the hidden reddish tones at the roots.

For a second, his familiarity branches into something that makes your heart race and then he shifts his head away. He stifles a quiet cough into his hand, and there's a pretty bad watery wheeze that follows after it.

Asthma? Chest cold? Your brain supplies unhelpfully, and you resist the urge to diagnose him. He's a weirdo who had been trying to climb up an apartment building for who knows what. You've heard of thrill seekers, but something about this guy’s edgy fashion choices don't lead you to believe he's doing this for the adrenaline.

You click your tongue in admonishment, and dig through your satchel.

He watches in surprise, and then affront, as you pull out a wrinkled bag of cough drops and hold them out to him.

“Get that cough checked out before it gets worse.” You tell him sharply, and when he makes no move to take the bag, you throw it at him.

He's forced to catch it before it hits his pretty face and he's about to retort, but you brandish your umbrella at him again with a warning.

“I’d better not see you around here again, or I will call the cops.”

You then look down at your watch and curse. You're already late for your shift. You don't give him a chance to speak, merely point to your eyes and then to him to let him know you're watching him, before you run off.  
\---

It’s a slow shift in the emergency room today. So far it’s been a litany of really bad flu cases and the occasional sprained limb. Standard care that you can easily diagnose and treat without much mental strain on your part.

You take it in stride, using the monotony to sift through your thoughts, anxieties and melancholy are piled up in the back of your mind and you know that’s not healthy.

Still, you’ve managed to avoid the RFA and anything to do with them for a grand total of two loops. It’s a nice break and even if you’re still stuck, you have some choice in how you spend these days of yours. You’ve accepted your disconnection, and so its with a genuinely relaxed smile that your greet your next patient.

Only for your hello to die on your lips as soon as you open the door.

“P-please...Doctor. Help me.” Comes Yoosung’s plaintive voice and your filled with two cups resentment and three cups pity for him when he turns those huge, tearful eyes on you.

He doesn’t look too bad, aside from the ruffled hair and the heavy dark circles, he’s hale and healthy on the outside. But his fingers are knotted together and he keeps biting his lip in worry. His pretty blue sweater is wrinkled and stained with coffee.

You soften your gaze again and pull out your chart, you pretend to read off his name.

“Hello...uh...Kim Yoosung? What brings you here today?” You ask kindly, idly doodling on the chart to hide your nervousness. This is so new. You hadn’t changed anything major in your schedule, so for Yoosung to show up here must have been caused by someone else changing up their behavior.

Still, your duty is to your patient, and as far as you can tell, there’s something eating away at his state of mind.

He seems to deliberate a bit, before blurting out his condition.

“I...I might have Pass Out After Drinking Caffeine Syndrome and I don’t want to die!” He yells, before covering his mouth in embarrassment. He looks tearful again.

You blink once. Then twice, an inkling of humor creeping over your mood. You have to stop you mouth from twitching because he seems genuinely distraught.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that, Mr. Kim.” You Shake your head, and are ready to ask him his symptoms when he pulls out his phone and flips it to you, a Wikipedia article displayed on the screen.

“It’s this...right here. I think I drank too much coffee and I tried drinking chocolate milk to help, but I don’t know if it’s too late.”

You get to the part about someone thanking cows and their imagination, before you have to bring up the clipboard to your face to hide your huge smile. A laugh bubbles up and escapes you, and you stifle it with a cough.

“I have good news for you, Mr. Kim.” You say blithely, bringing down the clipboard and looking him square in the eye. “There’s no such thing as Pass Out After Drinking Caffeine Syndrome. You can overdose on caffeine, but I think you might be okay. How much coffee did you drink?”

His eyes widen at first, before rapidly narrowing in irritation. Then he catches your mirthful expression, and he covers his face in shame.

“Seven...Seven why?” He mumbles, and a frisson of unwanted happiness shoots down your spine, an electrical signal all through your circuits that makes you feel like running away and running towards the problem all the same.

You do your best to hide the emotions that cross your face, and shake your head.

“It seems your friend put in much effort to trick you. However, I would suggest in future that a healthy sleep schedule might help that fatigue of yours.”

Yoosung has the decency to look appropriately sheepish. You wave off his apologies with a good natured laugh, your chest aching this whole time.

“Thank you so much, Dr._____” He tells you as he gathers his things and heads out. He gives you a friendly wave that you return stiffly.

“Mr. Kim…” He stops, the door half closed behind him as he peers at you over his shoulder. You’re going to chide yourself for this later, but you still….want connection.

“Please take care of yourself.”

His expression shatters into a large smile, and he enthusiastically nods his head as he bids you goodbye.

The door closes behind him with a painfully loud click and you feel like distracting yourself just won’t work anymore.  
——-  
It’s entirely against your better judgement that you return to that cafe you’d often met MC at.

It’s entirely against your better judgement that you still try and go in when you spot MC and Seven at your usual table. Sort of hidden behind a wall of books, pressed up nicely against the window.

It’s entirely against your better judgement that you stay in the same place, watching as they seem to discuss something heatedly.

It’s entirely in your best judgement that you leave when MC cups his cheek with an aching tenderness, and shamelessly pulls him in for a soft, sensual kiss.

You catch the strangely apologetic look she shoots you, her butterscotch eyes softening. You turn swiftly then, ignoring anything she may be trying to tell you.

You feel her eyes burning into the back of your head just as intensely as your hurt flares in your chest.  
——-

You go to the church again, despite your better judgement. Your yellow raincoat feels embarrassingly conspicuous now, and you’re in a hurry.

You shake out your umbrella and fold it up, leaving it in the corner by the heavy church door so that it doesn’t drip water all over the lovely green tile.

You’ve decided that if you are going to be disconnected, you’d like to make the final cut. You’d like to be entirely on your own, without these people being dangled in front of you as a false hope. As if you were a gullible child, reaching for a star no one ever told you you couldn’t touch.

You come at the usual time. There’s a piece of you that you’ve left behind on that church pew that you’ve come to collect. You’re tired of paying a tithe for a prayer that may never come true.

And if you’re being honest, your tired of tending to a blooming love that only ever ended up being a temporary bouquet. Something without a future, meant to say something once and then whither.

And yet…

In the place you usually leave behind your letters, in the place you planned on leaving this last letter, there’s a red envelope. It’s addressed to “the person in the yellow raincoat”.

You feel your grimace devolve into slack-jawed disbelief, your goodbye clawing at your thoughts until you’re not sure if you want to laugh or scream out in frustration.

This is confirmation that he remembers. Why hadn’t he done this before? Why now when you’d resigned yourself to being alone?

His handwriting is jaunty and messy, and is followed by a small silly caricature of himself.

Your hands are shaking as you tear it open and unfold the letter. The golden lighting of the church is scintillating, drifting down to pool over the messy words you take in with alacrity.

_Thank you for making it known that I’m not alone. Thank you for reaching out with your kind words all this time. You’ve kept me going for a while now. There’s so much I want to ask. And not just in relation to this whole mess we’re in._

_I want to know you. I want to know if you like eating sweets or savory foods. I want to know if you like Honey Buddha chips and whether I could make you laugh the way you’ve made me laugh in all your letters. I want to encourage you, face to face._

_I can’t do this on my own anymore. Whoever you are, please don’t disappear. Don’t disconnect just yet. Please, talk to me. I don’t want to be alone._

_-707_

There’s an ugly, quiet keening sound that trickles from your clenched teeth. You feel the warmth of tears prick at your eyes and you wipe them away furiously.

He’s finally reaching out to you, words clinging as desperately to your presence as you had been to him. It’s not fair, you think, that his timing is just so imperfect. That the day you’ve decided to break things off permanently, no matter how lonely or one sided, he has finally responded.

You’re so tired. So you pocket his letter, a little roughly and set yours down on the pew. You’re still going to say good bye.

You walk down the aisle towards the door, and despite your better judgement, you imagine what it would be like to walk the other way. Up the aisle, towards the gilded cross behind the altar, someone with golden eyes and scarlet hair waiting for you with a smile that places the stars in the sky.

“It’s such a wonderful lie, isn’t it?” You tell yourself, your umbrella unfurling with a fwip of agreement.

As soon as you get out from under the shelter of the doorway, the rain hits hard. It drums harshly in a well timed manner telling you to go go go. Get away from here.

You’re a sad little thing made of hurt and bitterness at the moment, but you’re ready to move forward, disappointment nipping at your heels.

Until you’re not.

“Wait!” He says behind you and his voice snaps up and bites into your muscles until you cannot move. It’s all in your mind, your love, your beliefs, your resolution and him.

You hear his footsteps loud and wet, splashing through the puddles in the cracked concrete.

You can run. The space between you and him is shortening. You’re running out of time to disconnect.

You feel the cold water hit against the back of your jeans. He’s too close.

You run.

You stay.

Not of your own volition. His pale fingers have reached out and caught the end of the sleeve of your yellow raincoat. Your arm is gently, awkwardly stuck behind you, one of your feet caught in midair in a half step.

You watch the water drip from the sole of your boot down into the growing pool of rain. Time has stopped, and you moved to tug your arm away from him.

His grip tightens, before he begins to speak again.

“Stay...a minute. Please.”

You place your foot down with a hesitant step. Your arm goes slack in his grip.

You don’t speak still. You simply tilt your head a bit over your shoulder, your hood hiding everything but the curve of your nose and the edge of your jaw, strands of damp hair stick uncomfortably to your cheeks.

“You’re not alone. You...don’t have to do this alone.” He continues and you can imagine his eyes, gold and sharp and earnest under the wavering streetlights. “I...its funny. I’ve never heard your voice.”

Your head tilts towards the traffic camera on the lamp post.

He chuckles warmly, the rain echoing his laughter.

“There’s no audio on those. But you make yourself easy to recognize.” His fingers close around a little more fabric on your sleeve. “What I mean to say is...I’ve never heard your voice, but I know you.”

You let out a snort. Hardly. You probably know more about him than he does you. Courtesy of MC’s ominous cafe visits. Courtesy of a timeline he probably forgot where he helped you move on.

He hears you.

“I know it sounds ridiculous...but your letters...you put so much into them...And I...I’m so happy you exist. When I found out, I was so unbelievably relieved, that I could have kissed you.”

He says it so flippantly, but a jolt of pain lances through your chest and causes you to pull harshly away from him.

“Don’t say that so easily.” You finally bite out, your voice angry and edged with hurt.

He apologizes hastily. He takes a step forward and you can feel the warmth of his hand radiating just over the exposed skin of your wrist.

He hesitates and doesn’t wrap his fingers around you again. But his hand hovers there and you hate it. You hate this uncertainty.

Your tears fall angrily, and yet you stay.

“Why now? Why are you here now?” You ask him, your arm holding the umbrella is starting to ache. So you relax it a little, and let the umbrella tilt behind you, placing one more barrier between you and him.

There’s a moment of silence, and you can feel the tips of his fingers just barely touch your wrist, slipping under your sleeve slightly.

You shiver. He’s frigid and this is too almost too much.

He’s a whole lot more quiet. Careful this time.

“Thank you. For everything. I don’t...want to leave you alone in this anymore.” He says, and against your better judgement, you move your wrist into the palm of his hand and let him curl onto it. His fingertips press against your skin, cold points bearing deep against you like the rain bearing down on your umbrella.

Against your better judgement, you let his words wash away your bitterness and from the fact that he will always love MC. You haven’t forgotten the kiss you saw.

You peer up at the dark clouds and the green traffic light blurred underneath sheets of rain. You can pretend it’s the rain that crawls out from under your lashes and not tears.

You lift up the umbrella for him, and he steps in beside you, still holding onto your wrist. You turn it in his loose grip, and don’t look at him as you curl your fingers around his.

“Hey...if you squint at the city lights, they look like stars.” He says off handedly. “We could pretend we’re in space.”

Your smile is bittersweet as he recalls one of the lines you’d written in your letters.

You cry until you laugh.

He does too.

There’s nothing you’d want to distract you from this moment, broken as you are.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO the plot for this apparently flew away from me and needs more than 3 chapters for a resolution. Thank you for reading.


End file.
